


It Won't Take You Too Long To Forget

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also may turn into a sprawling epic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, But hopefully not, Human!Javert, M/M, Vampire!Valjean, Vampire/Human Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring one self-loathing world weary vampire, one overly curious temptingly delicious human, and a possibly tragicomic romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> Written for this prompt on the kink meme:
> 
> "Valjean is a vampire hunter.
> 
> Javert is the long-suffering lawman who inevitably gets tangled up in Valjean's varied schemes.
> 
> Bonus points for Valjean being a world weary vampire himself, sworn to hunt his own kind for the good of humanity (and in vengeance, since he was turned against his will). Double x 1000 bonus points for Valjean feeding from Javert during sex (after being given full consent and having promised Javert he won't turn him)."
> 
> (I may not end up exactly following the prompt, brodinsons. So sorry.)

They had always been a cursed race. Their progenitor, Cain, had been cast from the Lord’s favour for spilling his brother’s innocent blood; the very first murderer, whose sin was almost on par with that which had caused his parents to be driven from Eden.

What the Lord had abandoned, the Adversary gladly accepted. The Lord rendered his labours futile, withholding from him the fruits of the earth; the Adversary granted him the power—and indeed, the need—to subsist on human blood, the more innocent the sweeter, so similar to that of his slain brother Abel. The Lord expelled him from His presence, depriving him of the glory of His rays; the Adversary welcomed him into the darkness of night, all the better for hunting his former fellows, his present prey. The Lord stripped from him the capacity to beget mortal children; the Adversary bestowed upon him the ability to generate offspring through the transfusion of blood, a mockery of human procreation. Cain’s evil deeds pleased the Adversary so much that he made him and his children immortal, yet even Satan could not shield the fallen from the power of the Cross and Holy Water, nor could he counter the Lord’s will and allow them to once more roam free in the sun. They were condemned to prowl at night and hide from the day, fugitives and vagabonds of the earth, despised and feared by all who crossed their paths. They had been known by many names throughout history; the current century dubbed them Vampires.

Such were the covert whisperings in dingy taverns and bored ladies’ saloons, never too loud, as if the gossipers were afraid to draw attention from the very subject of which they spoke. They piled conjecture upon speculation, often groundless but nonetheless fascinating. Their curiosity concerning these dangerous creatures might have gradually ceased with time, if not for the occasional bloodless corpse found in narrow alleyways. Conversations would invariably flare up again, albeit with far more caution than before. The intrepid novelists even dared to make these children of the night the protagonists of their works, spreading more myths and apocryphal legends. There were those who doubted their very existence; for those who believed, it was said that an encounter between a human and a vampire must end with the death of one or the other, for predator could not co-exist with prey.

This, more than anything else, was the cause of the impenetrable divide between these two races that must share this earth.

~ * ~

He did not know how long he had lived. He did not care. His indifference was not that of the other prisoners, though on the surface they may appear to be similar. For his fellow sufferers, wearisome, interminable days blurred together into one meaningless, indistinct blob. For him, the unit of measure was years. Time mattered little when one had witnessed the change of centuries, and through it all, the unchanging fickleness of human nature.

Once upon a time, he had been but a simple peasant, uncultured and unschooled, having little care beyond securing his next meal. He was neither an occultist nor a dreamer; he never sought after forbidden knowledge or mystic truths. He rarely even dreamed, the exhaustion of a day’s work enough to send him into the deepest slumber. He had been but a simple peasant.

That time had long been past.

Now he was nothing. He was an outcast of both worlds; the humans renounced him, though he still dared to consider himself to be of their brood; he renounced his brethren, and had sworn to hunt down any who slaughtered innocents for food. He was content to sustain himself on animals, despite the nigh irresistible draw of human blood. He could not recall why he had made such a vow, or why he had chosen to so deprive himself while others of his accursed kind had no such qualms. He knew not why he persisted in pretending to be human. But every life, even this pathetic parody of a life, needed a purpose. He did not know the reason for which he must do these things, only that he must. And so he shall.

Perhaps, there had once been a human…

But the memories had long since faded.

Time had robbed him of far too many things that he was no longer able to recall. After a devastating loss, he could only try to shield his unbeating heart by discarding those so very precious memories, and when he inevitably came to regret this, he would find the shreds of recollection stolen by time. In return, time gifted him with experience and knowledge of a great many subjects, gifts he did not care for, gifts that could in no way make up for his bereavement. Time did not care. It was the harshest teacher, insisting upon instruction whether its pupils were willing or not.

Centuries of experience had caused him to become complacent. He was no hero, but was unfortunately just as subject to fatal flaws.

He had thought it would be a simple hunt. He was mistaken. A child wandered into the conflict. She died.

He had tried to save her.

He failed.

He made a mistake. A simple mistake, and a child paid the price for it.

This was an innocent life, like the other innocent lives he had sworn to protect to give purpose to his existence, in his unceasing struggles against the downward drag of apathy.

He did not know her family. She was a stranger to him. She could not have been older than eight.

He buried the body in a field of flowers, then walked the distance to the nearest town, broke the glass of a bakery window, grabbed a single loaf of bread, and pretended to run.

He spoke no words during his trial.

He was sentenced to five years in the bagne of Toulon, where he must labour under the scorching heat of the merciless sun. He never sought shelter from its rays, opting to expose himself to them as much as possible, delighting in the agony of his flesh that at least dulled the agony of his soul, drawing his mind away from the pain of loss and utter failure that dwelled in his heart. But five years was not enough. He attempted to escape four times that his sentence may be extended, for this was his penance. He must pay for his mistake. He was not satisfied, but had he tried to stay longer, even the layers of dirt and sunburns and his unruly beard would not be enough to hide the fact that he did not age. He allowed himself to be paroled.

He served a total of nineteen years.

None knew his name, and thus on his sentencing report and his parole passport, he was christened Pierre Dubois, and decided to be a native of Faverolles where he had committed his crime, though no one in Faverolles was able to identify him. In truth, nothing was known about him save the single act of robbery, but fact had never much concerned those austere persons of the judiciary when they felt themselves inconvenienced by it.

They could not sentence a nameless man, so he was Pierre Dubois; every man must have an origin, so he was of Faverolles.

He did not remember that this unassuming little town had indeed once been his home, when he had been but another human labouring to keep himself and his family alive. He did not remember that his family had been laid to rest in a plot of land not far from the spot where he was arrested. He did not spare a thought for the white bones hidden beneath the dark earth, which once were bodies he cradled in his arms. Perhaps even the bones had withered to dust.

That had been a long, long, time ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update this at least once a day, but don't cross your fingers. And there _may_ be manhandling in the next chapter. Maybe.

He was known as the nameless one by his fellow convicts, the tale of his mysterious past and his atypical trial having somehow circulated through Toulon, no doubt blown out of proportions due to the lack of any other type of entertainment in this wretched place. The guards called him 24601, and pretended that his real name was Dubois. He responded to none. Eventually, it became accepted that he was mute, and he took no measures to correct this misconception if the result was that he could be left alone. He toiled under the directions of the guards, endured the lash, and permitted his blood to flow, in an approximation of the rate at which human blood flowed. He made a conscious effort to draw breath at the same pace as the others, and forced his heart into beating with an enormous feat of mental concentration. He was convinced that he must have failed at some simple autonomic task of humanity, though if he did, no one seemed to notice.

Once or twice he forgot to disguise his strength, but that merely earned him more work and heavier chains, not the suspicion he had feared. Sometimes he wondered at the gullibility of humans, but he shouldn't complain as this worked to his advantage.

He ate his meals unprotesting, and threw them up again when he knew himself unobserved. Human sustenance was to him poisons, causing his intestines to twist and clench in unbearable pain—or would have been unbearable had he been anyone else without centuries of pain tolerance built up through trials and tribulations. As it was, the pain was merely extremely uncomfortable, not debilitating. He bore it patiently as but another part of his penance.

Whenever he felt hunger bloom in his depths, threatening to overwhelm his restraint and making even the dirty blood of convicts smell sweet, he would escape the prison at night and hunt in the woods, always returning before his absence was discovered. Bars and chains were useless to stop him; human eyes could not discern his form in the darkness. He left and returned unhindered. If he was to be caught at an attempt at liberty and his sentence to be lengthened, it would be a deliberate act. His penance would be of his own choosing.

He refused to make a mistake in this.

He drank blood from various animals, never taking too much to imperil any one’s life. It was perhaps fitting that even in beasts, the innocent was the most alluring. The blood of predators—particularly those who sat near the top of the food chain—shared some similarities with stale bread and sour wine, though he had forgotten the taste of either before Toulon. The blood of the doe would be nearly as delicious as a human’s. Tantalizing, inviting, defenceless—full of such exquisite promise. It would not be against his vow; it would only be a tiny sip, not enough to cause it more than a moment of dizziness. There could be no harm in this.

He did not give in to the urge to try.

He could not permit himself anything in which he might take even the smallest amount of pleasure.

He knew that this was only penance, not atonement. To atone, he must make reparations. How could one even begin to make reparations for a life lost through one’s own idiotic carelessness?

The answer escaped his grasp.

~ * ~

At some point in his sentence, there appeared a new scent in the air, indefinite and barely discernible, almost lost in the multitude of odours that permeated Toulon; a new pair of curious eyes upon him, no doubt thanks to the stories of his prodigious strength and his perpetual silence. He did not pay it much mind, as he ignored everything outside of his travails. After a time, he felt the eyes move away. His novelty must have worn off.

The scent, too, blended into the collective stench of the place, no longer teasing at the very edge of his perceptions, as if seeking entrance into his mind. Life fell back into the old routine, and this change was soon forgotten.

Until one night, when pausing on the brink of sleep, he heard footsteps stop outside his cell. With this proximity, the mouth-watering aroma of the human’s blood became virtually overpowering, and he wondered how he could ever have ignored it before. It had been some time since his last hunt. His control was not at its peak.

He tamped down his lust, balling his hands into fists, and waited for his meal—for the guard—to leave. But the footsteps did not resume.

He cursed whoever changed this guard’s patrol schedule.

Inquisitive eyes bored into him. He silently withstood their scrutiny, his head bowed, praying to God and Satan that this fool would be gone before his patience ran out. He did not know which it was that granted his prayer. He gave thanks to both.

Only then did he glance up, and saw the retreating back of a child.

~ * ~

He had once been foolish. It was perhaps another part of his curse, that cherished moments should be so easily trampled to dust by the wheels of time, yet painful recollections should linger long past their welcome.

There had been a human girl. He had been very young by immortal standards. He believed she had loved him. He believed he had loved her.

He believed their love could perhaps have survived the revelation. He believed their love could perhaps have transcended the enmity between their races. He believed their love was a connexion between their souls. If he had a soul—he was uncertain.

Even with all his optimism, he dared not reveal his secret. It was by mere chance—chance, and his thrice-damned carelessness—that she had discovered.

The look of disgust on her face rent all his dreams to tatters. Ironically, it was then that he was convinced he had a soul, for no soulless creature could possibly feel so much pain in the absence of a physical wound.

_I was turned against my will._

He did not say that.

_I have never harmed an innocent life._

He did not say that either.

Instead he bowed, spun around, and walked away.

She did not call him back.

He no longer knew what to believe.

It was just as well that he could not recall her name.

~ * ~

Humans entertained the myth that his race did not dream. How he yearned that they were right.

It was perhaps not a good sign that he should be revisited by such a dream after meeting his first actual temptation in years.

He made a note to stay as far away as possible from that guard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you brave souls who managed to struggle through my purple prose, congratulations. You shall see a bit of manhandling and life-saving ahead.
> 
> (By the way, I haven’t actually read Twilight, so I don’t know how good or bad it is, but please, everyone, leave me a comment telling me if you think this is better or worse than Twilight?)

He made sure to be asleep every night before the guard passed his cell, preferring to subject himself to the probable anguish of dreams than the certain temptation of wakefulness. During the day, the guard’s post was distant enough that he was not unduly affected, and he was grateful to the Powers That Be for this small mercy.

He could even come to welcome this new torture, he thought; he could consider this necessary repression of his despicable desires as yet another part of his penance. He could consider this a victory of sorts, the continual triumph of his will over his baser instincts. So long as the cravings were kept at a reasonable level, so long as he sated his thirst for blood regularly, so long as his control did not falter, none but him would be hurt or troubled.

He could indeed come to welcome this.

He failed to recognize in this acceptance the seeds of complacency, which had so often been his downfall.

~ * ~

He also failed to see that the mere presence of the human was enough to bring him out of his uncaring stupor, to rouse in him thoughts and feelings he had believed dead and buried, to stimulate his stagnant mind into alertness, to reawaken his languid soul. He had always been drawn to purity. The human’s charm was enough to confuse his rational logic and lure him into treacherous territories.

He was not conscious of the startling effects this young human—this boy—had upon him beyond the bloodlust he inspired.

If he was, he would perhaps have been more cautious. If he was, he would perhaps have been cognizant of the danger this nameless guard presented. He would perhaps have left Toulon immediately and sought some other way of penance.

He was not.

~ * ~

On an ordinary summer day, a group of convicts were called upon to repair the balcony of the City Hall of Toulon. He was one of them.

As chance would have it, the guard was among the supervisors.

He did not know if it was chance or instinct that caused him to glance up from his work at that exact moment when one of the caryatids that supported the balcony fell from its place. The human was standing right next to Puget’s masterpiece, watching the convicts at their labours, entirely ignorant of the imminent danger. The statue was large, crafted from dense marble, and thus extremely heavy. Should it fall on him, he would be crushed under its bulk. His bones would be broken as easily as the most fragile glass.

It was not by his own volition that he shoved the human out of harm’s way and shouldered the weight of the caryatid. The deed was already done when he came to his senses. No doubt by tomorrow there would be tales of his phenomenal speed added to his herculean strength. No doubt they would at last begin to suspect that these signs point to an unnatural being and not simply an extraordinary human, yet he could not bring himself to regret this one thoughtless act.

He bore the burden as stoically as the caryatid herself had borne the weight of the balcony, and unlike her did not stumble in his duty until others took over his task. He straightened up and cast his eyes around for that foolish boy he had saved.

The human was staring at him with a curious intensity, dark eyes a magnetic, bottomless well. He met the gaze calmly. The human flushed and looked away.

He knew that look well, had seen it directed towards himself innumerable times in his centuries of existence, despite his isolation from humans. He knew the hunger, the flame, the longing hidden in that one look, though he was never sure if the humans themselves realized the transparency of their desires. He usually shrugged it off without sparing its origin a second thought. He wanted nothing to do with the unwholesome lust and fickle admiration of humans.

And yet in this case, from this particular human, the look caused a swell of something resembling pride in him.

It was impossible, of course, so he paid it no heed.

~ * ~

Later he learned that while the story of his heroics had indeed spread like wildfire through convicts and guards alike, he was still free from suspicion regarding his true nature. Perhaps the idea of a vampire in prison really was too surreal an idea for humans to wrap their puny brains around.

He shook his head, and carried on with his day.

~ * ~

He almost came to regret saving that damned guard when he suddenly found the boy paying a lot more attention to him, and generally becoming a lot more annoying—and a lot more tempting—than before the incident. Having him in his vicinity was bad enough; having him within meters of himself and sometimes even in his personal space was practically intolerable. He did not rescue a life only to have it perish at his own hands, but the fool was making this resolution increasingly difficult to maintain.

Through unintentional eavesdropping on conversations between the guards—he was not responsible for his preternatural hearing, after all—he learned that the human’s name was Javert.

He decided he preferred fool better.

Almost against his will, he found himself observing the human. He took note of his always immaculate uniform, his unbending posture, his stern expression that only served to make his boyish features appear even younger, like a child imitating an adult. He saw the care with which he wielded both his cudgel and his power over the convicts, never dealing out an undeserved blow or unearned reprimand. He saw the solitude that he had chosen for himself, preferring his own company to that of the other guards. He saw a painful past well-hidden in the depths of those beautiful eyes, and his determination to overcome it. He saw all these things, and he found them strangely endearing.

He was horrified at himself, and quickly submerged the thought. Such contemplations of a human could lead to nowhere good, of this he was positive.

He did not observe the human again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the mistakes. It is 7 in the morning here and I have not slept for 24 hours. I will fix them later, but I want to post this when I am too tired to judge it rationally, or all the second thoughts would succeed in making me rewrite it for the hundredth time. So once again I apologize.

It was his thirteenth year in Toulon, though he himself was hardly aware of the fact. The only reminder of the passage of time was the gradual, relentless decay of mortal humanity he witnessed around him, when he allowed himself to be conscious enough to witness anything. Fresh-faced youths that had retained some sweetness despite their criminality soon turned into bitter, harsh men in this artificial hell, which was purportedly created to protect innocence from brutality. He saw the change without marking it, the corruption of the soul producing in him no deep philosophical thoughts save a vague acknowledgement of time’s might.

He had shrouded his senses and his mind as best he could in an instinct to protect his heart. Mindless routine pleased him. Thoughtless tasks pleased him. The pleasure was muted and repressed.

The guard lost interest in him yet again. For once he thanked the fickleness of human nature.

It was during one of his hunts in the woods that he decided it was necessary for his sentence to be increased. This decision came not from reason, for he did not permit himself to be capable of reason. It arose only from a dim impression that he had not suffered enough for his sins.

He remained in the forest past his customary time, knowing that soon enough his absence would be discovered. He did not have long to wait.

The cannon sounded. The search for him had begun.

He trudged through the foliage, his footfalls deliberately heavy. He was not sure if he managed an entirely accurate representation of how humans walked when they were trying and failing to be discreet and noiseless, but it was close enough. He traveled in the general direction away from Toulon.

Some time passed and the sky had begun to lighten when he heard the sound of actual human footsteps in the distance. It was because of the poignant fragrance of nature that he did not notice the approaching scent until it was too late.

Of course it would be this guard that found him. Of course.

He admired the gun trained upon his heart coolly, musing on the folly of youth. It was most unwise to pursue a dangerous convict as he supposedly was without back up, relying on nothing but a weak, fallible instrument. He would not harm him, true, but the guard might not always be so fortunate.

He was uncomfortably reminded of his own carelessness.

Perhaps he ought to teach him a lesson. A much needed lesson in caution.

He could hear another human some distance away, close enough to catch the sound of a loud scuffle yet perhaps not close enough to arrive in time to save his fellow should the first be engaged in combat against a deadly opponent. At this early hour, that other human could only be a guard. These two must be partners then. He shook his head at the imprudence of their separation. The cost of covering more ground in less time might well be one of their lives.

He found his course.

He walked towards the guard, ignoring the shouted command to halt which was followed by a threat to fire, much louder than was necessary even taking the sonority of authority into consideration. He respected the guard’s attempt to alert his colleague almost as much as his hesitation to shoot. He did not stop.

The trigger was pressed.

He swerved nimbly to the left. The bullet whizzed harmlessly past him. Before the guard had time to readjust his aim, his hand had closed around his opponent’s wrist. He squeezed firmly. The guard dropped his gun almost on the instant, a pained gasp escaping his lips.

It had been too long since he last tested his strength against a human. He had misjudged. He had forgotten how fragile humans could be. He let go of his victim and made to step back.

Yet his actions seemed to have released a wild fury in the guard. Fists flew at him, fueled by passion and rather lacking in finesse. He dodged some and endured others, not daring to retaliate for fear of inflicting serious injury. His purely defensive maneuvers only enraged the guard further, and he suddenly found himself with an armful of angry, delicious human attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

He really should have thought this through better. He should have remembered how strongly this human’s blood called to him. He should have submitted to the manacles quietly. He should never have willingly placed himself in physical contact with him.

The blasted human was by all appearances completely oblivious to the desire he provoked. He tried once more to restrain him, yet achieved little success. The human struggled in his too gentle grip.

His patience exhausted, he grabbed the human by the collar and slammed him against a tree, at the last second withdrawing half his force. The human writhed and squirmed, his exertions to free himself bringing their bodies unbearably close.

“Fool!”

He uttered a feral growl. His voice shocked the human into stillness.

The exercise had brightened the human’s eyes and warmed his blood, staining his cheeks a lovely shade. Though there was no wound on him, all the blood rushing to the surface still produced a scent so intoxicating, he feared for his vow. The human was battering against his carefully honed iron control. Despite holding the superior position, he trembled. He could already imagine the sweet, sweet taste upon his tongue. He leaned in closer. The human did not try to shift away. He resisted the urge to lick his lips. He could not stop himself from taking deep, luxurious breaths, drawing in whatever of the human’s essence was carried on the air. The human, too, was breathing heavily.

For the scent of contained blood to be capable of affecting him thus, this must be an extreme innocent. He had not thought that he would encounter such in Toulon, and he had not wanted to. He could not recall why he had not wanted to. His canines extended slightly. He lowered his lips to the human’s throat, brushing against it in what might almost be called a lover’s tender caress. The human shivered and tilted his head back. His tongue darted out to taste the skin. He felt the rapidness of the pulse. He heard the thundering of the heart. His own heart was still; he had forgotten about it in his rapture, and it would not beat without his instruction. He opened his mouth.

“Release him!”

The other guard had at last made it to the scene. The new gun pointed at him presented as little threat as the last, but he did not try to disarm this time. He surrendered himself to the law, and to Toulon.

~ * ~

He did not know if his lesson was sufficient to discourage the guard from pursuing danger alone. He hoped so; else he had almost fallen for nothing.

~ * ~

The following night, the guard stopped once more outside his cell.

“So you can speak.”

He did not deign the inane observation with a response.

“What is your name?”

The question caught him unawares. Here, then, was a guard who did not believe that he was Pierre Dubois. For a moment he was suspended in uncertainty, lost in thought.

The only thing he remembered of his human past was his name. He clung to his name, as he clung to the last vestige of his humanity. He did not ever employ it, for the need to remain hidden forced him to discard alias after alias behind him, and he could not—he dared not—with his true name. To shed that name would be to shed his humanity. Thus he kept it close to his heart and whispered it to himself at night, but permitted none other this knowledge. It was his last, dearest treasure.

He considered ignoring the question. The guard did not remove himself. They appeared to be two masterly crafted statues separated by the bars of the cell, one standing erect, the other lying prone, both unyielding. Every carved line expressed stubbornness.

The scent of the human’s blood was too fresh in his mind. He could practically hear the cracking of his control, only years of practice keeping it from shattering irrevocably.

The guard would not resume his patrol until he received an answer. Well. He closed his eyes, preparing yet another alias. Just as he was about to say it, he foolishly looked over at the guard and met a clear, guileless gaze. The lie stuck in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. Nothing came out. He tried to make himself give voice to a false name.

“I am Jean Valjean.”

He failed.

It was his first meaningful verbal communication with another being in thirteen years. Despite its disuse, his voice still held that mysterious quality which could lure humans to their demise.

“I am Javert,” the guard introduced himself.

“I know.”

He ignored the guard’s other questions concerning his past and his reason for the voluntary silence.

They did not interact again, save for the occasional command from the guard that he wordlessly obeyed.

Not long after, the guard was transferred away.

Guards were transferred between the bagnes all the time. He really ought to be alarmed at the peculiar sorrow he felt at this not unexpected development, but he would never see the guard again. He could permit himself some measure of grief at the parting of the only living being who knew his true name. What could be the harm?

So he did.

~ * ~

His first escape attempt had been near the end of his fourth year. Three years was added to his sentence. Three and the original five made eight. His second attempt was in the sixth. Three and eight totalled eleven. His third attempt was in the tenth. Three and eleven totalled fourteen.

Attempting escape immediately just before the sentence was served in its entirety would arouse too much suspicion, so he made sure to run at least a year short of the conclusion. During none of those attempts did he have cause to resist arrest.

His fourth attempt, as had been detailed, was in the thirteenth year. Five years were added to his sentence for escape and resistance. That made nineteen.

There was no fifth attempt.

~ * ~

His life returned to the monotony of purposeless existence. He ate what the others ate, slept when the others slept, and pretended to be human. The guard became just one more thing he tried to forget.

There was no more distraction from his penance.

Soon enough, he forgot himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized the reason this took me so damn long was that I am really tired of writing in Valjean's limited depressed point of view. I hope the switch to third-person omniscient or whatever this is isn't too jarring. If so, please let me know.

October of the year 1815 was beautiful. Gold autumn leaves decked the trees with a glorious splendour. A temperate breeze cooled the weary travellers on the road. The very air seemed to dance with joy. Dusk brought with it a sunset so resplendent and heart-stopping that all were compelled to raise their eyes to the heavens and give praise to God. Such a scene would be a fitting subject for a painting by one of those great renaissance masters no doubt, though it would be a challenging task indeed to capture the full majesty of a fresh autumn day on mere canvas.

One traveller, however, appeared indifferent to the magnificent beauty of nature that surrounded him, walking with head bowed and mind empty. He was a traveller only insofar as he travelled on the highway; he travelled he knew not where. He was an aimless wanderer, a vagabond.

This man was Jean Valjean.

It would be inaccurate, perhaps, to employ the word “man” in regards to Jean Valjean. Instead, “being” might be better suited.

His movements were mechanical; his mood, sepulchral. In the tedium of repetitiveness that characterized his drudgery in Toulon, he had become inured to sufferings physical and spiritual, in such a way as a constant ache became part of one’s normal state of being. He had grown accustomed to obeying orders and commands, and had long since discarded his inherent capacity as a thinking being. Having no thought, he was unable to regret the loss.

His gait was neither short nor long. The chains of prison left hardly a mark upon him, their weight certainly not an inconvenience, barely even a small annoyance, compared to his remarkable strength. His skin was bronzed and sunburnt like any common labourer. He still wore that unfashionable look of a shaved head and a long scraggly beard, relics of prison life that proclaimed his criminality to the world even better than his yellow passport, for they were on display for all to see. Jean Valjean was on parole.

He had no intention of complying with the terms of his parole; he had already lived under one identity for far too long. When he entered the bagne, his outward appearance was that of a youth in his twenties. Should his sunburns heal and his beard be shaved, his appearance would still be that of a youth of twenty six. His body was eternally locked in that agonizing and euphoric moment when it had passed from the realm of the mortal to the immortal.

He knew what he would not do, but that did not aid him in determining what he ought to do. In times past, he had frequented the centres of gossip in various towns to obtain news of uncommon, suspicious, or unexplained deaths. Should the cause appear supernatural, he would track down the murderers and make certain of them. This had been the sole purpose he assigned himself: to protect humanity from his forsaken race. After his devastating failure, he could no longer trust himself in the fulfillment of his single-minded duty.

A being without a purpose was worthy of great pity, for he was also devoid of a reason for existence; he was but a soulless husk. Life and death were all the same to him who wandered in the shadows of night, lost without hope or guidance, adrift without anchor or friend.

In such a directionless manner did he amble on till long after nightfall, never pausing to rest even for a moment. Those with nowhere to go seemed to have the inexplicable ability to persevere on their journey the longest. He had veered off the main path as the first stars appeared in the sky onto a narrow side road which weaved through the mountains. The occasional fearless or senseless man dared to cross the mountains to cut their travels from one unimportant town to another short by a few leagues. He did it as he did everything else, purposelessly.

Suddenly, he raised his head, some primal instinct alerting him to the presence of danger. It was not danger towards himself that he feared. Even in his current state of mind or the lack thereof, he still retained some vague impression of his vow to defend. He sensed his intervention might be required now.

Acting purely out of centuries of habit which a mere nineteen years of inactivity could not break, he darted forward on the lonely dirt road. There were three travellers on this road tonight. One was human, two were not. The human was an old man much beloved and revered by all who knew him, and who was of the custom to visit all the curacies in Digne sometimes on foot, sometimes in a cart, and sometimes on the back of a mule. He was Monseigneur Myriel, the bishop of Digne. One of the non-humans was of course Jean Valjean. The other was a bloodthirsty young vampire who had begged immortality of his lover, and whose name was irrelevant. The two vampires rushed towards the unwitting human with astounding speed. The other had been closer and reached the bishop first.

The sight which greeted Valjean’s eyes upon his entrance to the scene incited from him a roar of rage. The mule’s brains were dashed out on the rocks, dead. The old man was in the vampire’s grip, throat bared to sharp white teeth. A few second’s delay and he would have been too late.

Monseigneur Myriel regarded his impending death with calm eyes that conveyed an ineffable sorrow, not for himself but for his potential killer, as well as his sister and maidservant who were faithfully awaiting his return and who would be left without his support. He did not try to twist away from the inflexible grip the young vampire maintained on the collar of his cassock. The steady, dignified gaze of a man whose last thoughts were not of himself touched something unnameable within Jean Valjean, and he felt himself moved to a sort of veneration for this man.

This was the very quintessence of the purity he had vowed to protect.

Though he had sensed the other vampire’s presence, his own had been concealed from the youth’s inexperience. It was his cry that had given him away. Valjean sprinted towards the youth before he had time to react, nails extending, sharpening, and hardening, and in one swift movement had ripped out the other’s heart. As soon as the final blood vessel that attached heart to body was broken, both instantly withered to dust. The bishop stumbled back with the sudden disappearance of his captor. Not a trace of blood remained upon Valjean’s hand, only a sprinkling of power the wind carried away. That the heart should be so vital to their existence even after it had ceased to beat was a mystery he had never understood, as was the absolute and immediate disintegration when it was removed. Whatever the reason, it did at least save him the trouble of having to deal with a body.

Human and vampire watched together in silence as the last remnants of another being that had been here mere moments ago merged into the mountains, the clothing fallen upon the ground the only indication that all was not their imagination.

Jean Valjean was just preparing to leave as swiftly as he had come when the bishop spoke.

“Thank you, brother.”

“What did you say?” Incredulity was overflowing in the old vampire’s voice. He did not know which he found harder to believe could come from a human, the expression of gratitude or the presumption of fraternity.

“Thank you, my brother. I owe you my life, and my sister would be much saddened should I fail to return to her. On both our behalves, I must thank you,” the bishop said without a hint of fear or dissimulation. He had not been afraid of the vampire that would kill him; he would not be afraid of the vampire that had saved him.

“How can you say that? You are supposed to despise me! Everyone else does. I despise myself. Do you not think me evil? Do you not see what I am?” Valjean’s tone was dangerously close to madness. He spread his arms and bared his teeth, displaying the not-yet retracted claws and his gleaming, sharp canines.

“I see who you are, my friend. Tell me, is your present condition something you have chosen for yourself?” The inquiry was gentle, without judgement or reproach.

In all of Jean Valjean’s long life, none had ever asked him this question. None had ever cared for the answer when his true nature was revealed to them. He lowered his arms and, fearing his legs would give out under him, sat heavily upon a nearby boulder, shoulders hunched and trembling.

“No,” he whispered. He dared to look up.

There was sympathy in the kind, wrinkled face.

“And have you ever deliberately injured an innocent?”

A long pause followed, during which Valjean was assaulted with memories of pain and failure. But the choice of words was careful. He had but one truthful answer.

“…No.”

“Then you are a very noble man indeed. Which is grander? To have the luxury to be naturally good, or to be burdened with such a curse as yours and yet to struggle to overcome it? It is not one’s body that determines one’s nature. It is one’s soul. And despite what you might be, your soul does not belong to evil. Think about this, my brother. And now I fear I must take my leave.”

Jean Valjean said nothing.

The bishop walked to the deceased mule and knelt beside it, laying his hands on its still warm flank and muttering a quiet prayer. Then he stood and turned to go.

“Wait! Who are you?”

The old man bowed. “My name is Bienvenu. Farewell.”

Valjean watched Monseigneur Bienvenu’s back until his form was swallowed by the darkness. He took the sage advice and for the first time in far too long, forced himself to think. He had been running from himself; the bishop’s words gave him the courage to attempt a confrontation.

He sat through the night, and there remained unmoving till daybreak. In his heart, there had been an explosion. Or more correct to say, a transformation. He experienced a curious sensation of warmth and life, of growth and renewal, seeming contradictions to his wretched state. At length he rose from his perch on the rock and continued on his journey with a thoughtful countenance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Valjean ever needed was some validation. ~~Like me, actually.~~ :-P

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Eh, there. An overdose of my terrible writing. I beg your pardons, dear readers.~~
> 
> Eh, there. A lovely new dose of my wonderful writing. I await your adulation, dear readers. (A lovely reviewer suggested. The hubris is not mine.)


End file.
